Viña de Vaca December 13, 2021
I initially misheard the name as Vaca, not Bacco, so I naturally assumed the place had something to do with cows, maybe a vineyard of cattle. The owners, however, were thinking of the Greek god of bacchanals, Dionysus, a clear invitation to reckless indulgence. Today Viña de Bacco is packed, as it is celebrating its 15th anniversary, with cheap drinks, unlimited tapas, and live music from an American-style jug band. The singer looks and sounds like an Appalachian tobacco-chewer, although he is actually from Wales. No matter, he is foreign and adrift, and that is good enough for this expatriate haven.
My friend Kevin and his guitar partner were hoping to play a set of Son Jarocho outside Viña de Bacco—the tips are great—but that is clearly not happening today. The two Mexicans marvel at the near-toothless rendering of “Dark as a Dungeon Way Down in the Mine.” Kevin is trying to develop an appreciative ear for what he calls “Country Music,” and, to him, anything that is not blues or rock from the States is disparagingly called country. The freewheeling trio hogging the microphone at the moment is not convincing him otherwise.
Kevin’s instrument is a Jarana, which is about the same toy-size as the mandolin we are hearing on stage, but the tempo and style of old-timey Americana is nothing like old-timey Veracruzano—faster perhaps but stripped of all the syncopation that makes his favorite music so danceable. A frizzy-blond woman in a gingham dress and work boots stomps her heel like she is pounding nails. So goes the hillbilly dance. Precisely so, laments Kevin.
I confess that I cannot get his Jarana to produce any kind of proper chord, as the tuning is strange, and the skinny neck creates problems for the finger-impaired—the instrument’s neck, that is, not Kevin’s. However, the young master claims it is the perfect musical instrument for 5-fingered humans. I point out that thumbs are opposable, thus irrelevant, but Kevin simply reaches the fretboard from the other side—thus, five fingers in full use. Never mind the other three strings on the Jarana, which simply pair up with the three middle strings, forming the harmonic quintet. The resulting 10-string sound is lush but high-pitched, like a mandolin or Veracruz harp, the former requiring only 4 fingers on the fret board to play properly, not ideal, the latter requiring 36, or approximately seven hands.
From my socially distanced perspective, I am not convinced that the banjo player has enough fingers. This Welshman has clearly been away from home for a very long time, and the journey has had an impact. He hollers the lyrics more than sings, something the Son Jarocho singer might understand well. However, the foot stomping is just not comparable to the intricate step-percussion of Jarocho dancers, part flamenco, part “Riverdance.”
English-speaking drinkers come to Viña de Bacco to forget Spanish. All the regulars are present today for the anniversary, including Panchito the aging Casanova, Eugenio the Philosopher, as well as my Yanqui neighbor Jody, and many more who have been coming to this watering hole for years. La Viña de Bacco is determined to celebrate today, if only to make up for the lost year, even though nothing has really changed. Covid19 vaccination figures in Chiapas remain low, despite their availability. Of course, some vaccine reluctance may be expected among indigenous groups. Some even believe that consuming distilled corn alcohol provides quite enough resistance to the “bad air.” However, San Cristobal has lately become home to outsiders who expressly avoid vaccines. One recent arrival, a retiree from California, changed her original plans to live in the Philippines after she learned a vaccine was required there. She came here for the freedom, she stayed for the free tapas.
“Because I used to love you, but that’s all over now,” croons the sorry Welshman, waving his gnarled 3-fingered clawhammer.